Joan of Arc Armor

Journal No. 12

Today, I internalized the stories of trauma I heard about at UpRising Yoga teacher training without emotional or psychological armor. Their raw and honest stories of incarceration and human trafficking flooded the forefront of my mind. I was speaking to my mom about the event and suddenly began crying. I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the waterworks and get to work without looking like a total wreck. She lovingly guided me towards personal detachment, despite my habit of constantly reflecting on what I had heard as I went about my shift at the restaurant.

Yesterday, I listened to the story of a 19-year old girl who said she was one of the youth instructed to do yoga while in jail. “Doing yoga,” she said, “was one of the only things I had done right in my life.” Both parents in jail. I don’t know the rest of her story. But being close to her age, I reflected on my own parents and my own childhood. Her story literally hit home.

I saw the redevelopment of an impoverished community in Wilmington, California. The people had torn out a vacant parking lot where trash was thrown into, and they built a garden of fruits, vegetables and flowers. Volunteers tend to the garden beds and keep the soil fresh. Every Saturday, a farmer’s market is held here. Whatever produce is leftover is donated back to the community. The value of this project kept Wilmington nourished and unified. I saw my own neighborhood in conjunction with Wilmington, remembering my neighbors who provide our family with fresh oranges from their backyard trees. Another story that reminded me of home, a place that shaped who I am.

Jill Ippolito, Founder of UpRising Yoga, and I standing in front of the community garden.

A beautiful bed of lettuce planted by the community members.

A yoga instructor opened the teacher training with a 15-minute meditation, and through this meditation, I visualized the image of a brown box with a travel tag. This is the “gift” she told us to see. It’s the gift that we possess as well as give back to people. As a journalist, I envision giving the gift of story-telling and news.

Back to this morning and my unanticipated meltdown, my mother helped remind me to build a shield around my heart. She said to me that as a journalist, I need to create some distance between myself and the stories I cover, especially since I’m emotionally invested in issues of gender. My mother made a point that journalists who take on serious projects like these can potentially end up with PTSD from their job. I’m seeking to build an emotional and subconscious armor, some protection against my repressed memories, my most secret thoughts, my dreams.

I don’t believe this guard can be manufactured in a day, in a month or in a year. Maybe I call it my Joan of Arc armor. Whenever I pick up a pen or sit at my laptop with emotional and mental investment, I put on this armor. And if I need to strip off the armor in order to go there — go to that place of truly connecting with another person through journalism, fighting my own demons — I choose to have that option.

It’s risky opening up myself completely and I might not be as functional for awhile afterwards. But I care. I’m human. I am a person who also has a story. Being a journalist doesn’t make me a hero or someone with more authority or power. It doesn’t make me better than anybody else. I am who I choose to be. I am what I give back. Above all, I choose to fight being a victim of my own mind.